


There, But for the Grace of Pt I...

by PhoenixDragon



Series: There, But for the Grace of [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2006-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when Mary died and left him with two small and lonely little boys - even when those boys grew (and so amazingly fast) to the men they have now become, one with his endless defiance and one with unquestioning obediance - he had never changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There, But for the Grace of Pt I...

  
Settling into another random motel, taking the phone off the hook, putting out the Do Not Disturb, so the maids won't wander in to replace the towels, only to be confronted with messy notes on things that don't exist and weapons - lots and lots of weapons. 32 to be exact, but who's counting? It's not like he left the best weapons with...

Better not think about that.

That way lies weakness - that way lies questions that he doesn't want to answer - questions about his life, his current 'job' - and himself. A whole lotta questions about that subject _there_ \- top among them being 'what the hell am I doing here?' upon which another ran a close second, along the lines of 'have I finally lost it, lost that edge, lost who I am?'. To which the only answer is...

Never.

Even when Mary died and left him with two small and lonely little boys - even when those boys grew (and so amazingly fast) to the men they have now become, one with his endless defiance and one with unquestioning obediance - he had never changed. He was a simple man, focused - with a drive that would propel him into the world and beyond.

Vengeance was exhaustive and exhausting - and when it ate up everything else, what you had left was - _you_.

He left him there.

Just, _left_.

He knew that if he looked into his boy's eyes, if he saw himself reflected there, he would weaken -

And he would stay.

It wasn't a matter of right or wrong anymore, it wasn't even a matter of safety and 'knowing your enemy and your friend' - it was a matter of escaping that trust, that overall acceptance of being _less_ than your daddy's obsession - and...

It was about vengeance.

So here he was. Everything was the same, and yet so very, very different. Same seedy, crappy fly-by-night hotel that didn't give a fuck if the clientele screamed, bled or just stayed the night (either way they wouldn't check, and only half the time would they even _think_ about calling Johnny Law) - same old smelly, rot your guts out take out, same bad black 'n' white horror flicks, and the same thought running through his head.

 _'When I find that sonofabitch, I'm going to rip his entrails out with my bare hands. I'm going to show that fucker his guts - then I'm going to set him on fire, and watch him burn and burn and burn and burn.'_

A satisfied smile would briefly touch his lips at the thought that someday - soon.

It was a smile that made his sons, his strong, stoic and unshakable sons - flinch away and give each other uneasy looks.

But it was a smile he saw them wear too, and that thought both thrilled and horrified him. He felt that cruel, heartless joy whenever they hit a target ten out of ten, when Dean did what he was ordered to without question or even a flicker of doubt - when Sam found that lead, and set his jaw - either in disrespect or in the thick of the chase. But the horror went hand in hand with that joy - the thought that if he loved his sons, _really_ loved them - he wouldn't have started this - he wouldn't have driven them so hard, he wouldn't have wrapped them so firmly in his obsession. But the truth was -

He **didn't**.

Over the years, over the endless, endless hunts, chases, injuries that couldn't be explained properly to _anyone_ , school days missed and soft cries in the night from deeper, soul hurts that couldn't be soothed - he found his love of his sons had turned hard, _cold_ \- that his reliance on that love had become so set, he had all but forgotten it, and soon, his mind had deemed it unnecessary for the task at hand and had rejected it.

He loved the Hunt more than his own flesh and blood - the reason for that first thirst for vengeance, for _resolution_ \- was flicked aside like a used condom - worn out, abused, torn and now somehow, dirty -

His love was his reason, and now, his reason was his love.

That was the main drive for leaving. For just **abandoning** his son in that _other_ seedy, run-down motel room, with bad fast food, bad horror flicks (some of which, only existed in the mind), and even worse soul hurts. Abandoning a son who would never complain, never fault him, never _ask_ -

He could no longer be burdened with his son's love for him, or be riddled with the pain of his love for his son -

He was too close now.

The reports were just _rolling_ in. Possessions up by 35 percent in the past twenty years, demonic haunts and killings, by almost _fifty_ percent.

It was time to go.

And go he did. Leaving his son with more questions than answers, he was sure.

But with Dean - he would never ask - Dean just _accepted_.

Sam on the other hand.

He clenched his fist, biting down on one knuckle to blind out the sudden rage that accompanied the very _thought_ of his younger son - his youngest, whom this all started for - the light of his life, his biggest failure and his never-ending pride and joy - who had just... _Left_.

Oh, the irony of it all. To be angry with someone over their abandonment of you - when you are so willing to do the same in return.

Something so funny should never hurt this much.

  
 _Maybe he still loved them after all._


End file.
